Not a Toy
by Neko-Li
Summary: ”Well then, how about a wager?” The elvenlord sounded amused. “My twins for your dancing leaflet?” Cwen Leaf's heart turned to ice. -No!- Her Lord chuckled. “Name your terms.” The ice shattered. -No! I am not a toy!- ...Elvenbane - Halfblood
1. The Doll

And it begins! This story is set in the Halfblood Chronicles (Elvenbane series) by Mercedes Lackey and Andre Norton. It doesn't seem like anybody else in this category is writing about these books, so I hope you like. ^_^U (If anybody else does have a fanfic about this series let me know, huh? ^_^) 

Disclaimer: This Halblood Chronicle's storyline does not belong to me. Cwen Leaf, Shaen, and any other original characters do. 

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Cwen Leaf tossed her hair at her reflection in the mirror. Its dark length fluttered down around her shoulders, and for a moment she peered out from beneath a few artfully misplaced strands, her green eyes glinting with anticipation. They were not the piercing, crystalline green of her Elven Lord's slanting eyes; but rather, dark and blended with gold highlights and brown-black shadows. 

Forest eyes, He called them. 

She shivered deliciously, remembering times He had used that phrase. Running one last look along the length of her reflection, she stepped away from the mirror, and slipped into the silk of her dress. It was gorgeous black affair, cut with the perfect slits and flowing lengths for dancing— the seamstresses must have slaved for days—but she barely spared it a glance. She felt happy and bubbly—positively sparkling—as she sashayed along the hallways, passing briefly through the hum of the Curtain as she went. 

She felt this swelling of giddiness when called into His presence, thrilled anew each time by the reaffirmation of His interest in her. Outside high arch of the doorway, she paused momentarily to collect herself, not wanting to seem too much the giddy child before Him. He liked that about her, she knew, that she could be clever, and changeable, and entertaining; bright and dancing like a flame. 

Not like the fragile, elven milksops that occasionally came to call; swooning about the manor, and staring with frightened doe-eyes at her Lord Shaen. Not a timid, if celestially beautiful, creature of glass, suitable only to admire from its place on a shelf. Better. He liked her better. 

A final, cursory check of her appearance, a brief flip of her hair, and she entered. dropping immediately into a deep, graceful curtsy. She lingered in the elegant pose of submission, the back of her neck tingling with the feel of His eyes on her. 

"Ah, Cwen Leaf." Lord Shaen's low voice was warmed by amusement as he acknowledged her, and she raised her eyes, eagerly drinking in the sight of his inhumanly beautiful form. There was another elf in the room, another Lord, no doubt, and she inclined her body smoothly in his direction, as befitted one of her Lord's guests. Lord Shaen far outshone him, she thought, though the other Lord's delicately wrought clothing and many beryl ornaments bespoke a large power. 

"This is the one I've been telling you about," Shaen addressed his fellow, gesturing Cwen towards Him, and she beamed inwardly to be mention so. 

She recognized the specific direction, and crossed the room smoothly to sit at His feet, leaning back against His chair to gaze up at Him. "My Lord." He was at His most civil; the perfect, congenial host today. This other Lord must be His equal at least, most likely higher in status, if not in power as well. Shaen never bothered to put on this much of a show with His inferiors. Beneath his suave and gracious demeanor her practiced eye could just make out the tension in his posture. Very well, she would be stunningly impressive, a perfect living representation of the heights of her Lord's achievements. 

Closing her eyes and letting her head fall against His knee, Cwen focused her attention to humming a soothing melody as the two Lords talked. She kept the volume soft, so quiet she could barely make out the notes herself, but she new their elven ears would be aware of it, a calm, lulling presence in the background of their conversation. This was a trick she often performed for her Lord when he had guests, and over the years she had perfected it into an art form of its own. Shaen threaded absent fingers through her hair, and she felt a glow of pleasure at being able to please Him. 

Finally the conversation slowed, and he turned towards her. "Let's have one of your dances, Leaflet." He glanced at His companion. "Something fast." 

Cwen let a grin blossom on her face. Fast, hm? From her sitting position, she leapt to her feet in one fluid movement. In another rapid motion she leaned forward to brush a kiss across His lips, before darting quickly back to balance lightly on her toes, laughing. The familiar almost-smile touched his face, and she made a decision. 

Stepping back one more time to give herself room, she assumed a pose. This was a new dance, one she'd been practicing secretly for months to surprise Him. It was an old dance, and not one she'd ever seen performed elsewhere—she had discovered her instructor among the slaves, and old but still strong laundry matron, who had claimed that the dance dated back to before the elves. That was absurd of course, but Cwen Leaf was fascinated anyway, and had used all her wits and small influence to secure a private practice time with the woman. Embroidery training, she'd called it, for the woman had some skill in that department, while Cwen had none. 

Now she threw herself into the dance with practiced ease. It was fierce, primal, and almost violent, but infinitely controlled. Her teacher had described it as a silken harness on an Alicorn, and the dance truly did have all the wild beauty of one of those creatures. 

As she danced, she lost herself in the ebb and flow of the movements, until she felt as if her body was moving by itself, gyrating alone in a void. The speed and intensity escalated as she reached the climax, the momentum of each movement seeming to carry her into the next, until the dance seemed to be pulling her along of its own accord, and her feet barely seemed to touch the ground. 

The dance finished abruptly as it had started, and Cwen dropped out of the air to condense into solid shape, kneeling at her Lord's feet. She held the final pose for a moment, then looked up into His face, her own almost shining with exhilaration. 

He remained unreadable. Still, she thought she could pick out traces of approval on His face. "I have not seen that one before." 

It was not a question, but she responded anyway. "I desired to surprise my Lord. Did it please my Lord?" 

He glanced at the other Lord and the half-smiled graced his lips again. "A lovely gesture, Cwen. Very entertaining, was it not?" Another glance. "You dance anything beautifully, but I think I prefer your others. Such fierceness does not suit my leaflet." 

A brief flash of discontent was overridden by a wave of distress at His words. Still she felt some small comfort—he was pleased at least by her initiative. Silently, she moved gracefully to her feet. "Please, allow me to serve." 

And she danced again, a different, more sensual dance. 

**************** 

It was late in the evening before He dismissed her from His presence. Cwen's muscles were aching from the exertion of her dances, and she could sympathize with the strain she saw in Lord Shaen at continually putting on a show for the other lord. Her stomach ached, and she felt a littly dizzy, as she had only had the few sweets Shaen had offered her off His dinner plate. 

Still she was buoyed by a sense of elation as she left the room, curtsying her exit. Her second dance had been received much more receptively, and her third still more. He was proud of her; she could tell. 

Outside the door she stopped long enough to examine her dress. It truly was a masterpiece, designed to allow the utmost freedom of movement and enhance the effect of every motion. Towards the end a length of its green silk had torn loose, and sassessed now she examined the hastily knotted fabric. Not enough to ruin the dress, luckily, or even render it indecent, and fixable easily enough. She turned to start on her way, when the sound of her name made the voices beyond the archway suddenly leap to the forefront of her attention. 

"-Cwen Leaf's dance," she heard Lord Shaen finishing. 

"Interesting that last one. Rather primitive but… exotic." 

"Yes it was, wasn't it? My Leaflet's always been a creative one." At His words, Cwen felt a flush of pleasure. 

"Hm." The other lord sounded non-committal. "Perhaps too creative? That sort of thing can get out of hand you know." 

"Nonsense! She's just one human girl. Besides, she very loyal. I trust her completely." Cwen closed her eyes, reveling in the inner glow his words of praise afforded her. Her mind racing with delight she missed the next few comments. 

"Well then, how about a wager?" The other lord sounded amused. "My twins for your dancing leaflet?" 

Her Lord chuckled. "Name your terms." 

Cwen felt as if her heart had turned to sharp shards of ice in her chest. _No!_ she thought. She tried frantically to assure herself that He was only playing the host, that He did not really mean it, that He could not avoid it. 

His voice! "Make it that little red-headed vixen I saw the last time I visited your estate and you can _have_ her. 

_No!_ she thought again. Cwen caught herself against the wall, turning to lean into it. Why did it feel like her world was coming apart? _No! I am not a toy to be bargained with!_ Reeling blindly, she fled. 

_I am not a toy._

  
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So, you like? Yes? No? Let me know PLEASE!! *big puppy eyes.* Its not much now, but if I get 5 reviews or so, I'll promise to get the next chapter up in a week. Hmmmm?   
-Li 


	2. Cye'rriah

Thanks so much to all the people who reviewed! ^_^ It meant a lot. Here's the next chapter, hope you like it.

Disclaimer: The Halfblood Chronicles are property of Mercedes Lackey and Andre Norton. All is not mine. Except that which is. Take only pictures, leave only footprints, you know the drill. 

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His words echoed still in her mind, as she rushed through hallways and brushed past confused slaves, who looked at her with irritation, pity, disinterest, or fear. Her mind was darting in frantic little circles, like a cornered mouse, thoughts tracing and retracing the same pathways. 

_ How…?  
Why…?  
Surely…  
No-no-no-no-no!_

Her wild flight halted only when she reached the Curtain, guarding the harem. Her bewildered mind finally condensed on one point. 

_I can't face Him again._

Once she stepped beyond that magic shield, it was more than likely that it would not open to her again until her Lord summoned her once more. Once she stepped beyond… she would be trapped. It was strange how what had always seemed a comforting shelter to her so clearly now appeared a prison. It was strange… 

She lingered undecided for what seemed an age in front of that shimmering wall, heart beating painfully in her chest. It would be so simple to take that step, to submit herself to the inexorable flow of events that would follow. 

_If this would truly please Him…_ Hadn't she always wanted nothing more than his happiness? Hadn't she known, almost from the first moment she came into the harem, when He was newly risen to his father's place, that she would do anything for Him? 

_I thought that He cared for me!_ The thought tore through her head, an anguished howl, and she knew again exactly why she could not face Him again, not even briefly. It was not so much the pain of betrayal, as the pain of knowing every moment she had spent with Him was a part of the lie. Even if she was not traded away, she would never again be able to place her unqualified trust in His hands, never again be able to accept His words without questioning what lay behind them. 

She turned away, stumbling aimlessly through the halls, mind a blur of confusion, and found her steps taking a familiar course. Amity. The old slave woman that had been teaching her the dance. This was the room she had procured for their practice, and as a favor to the old woman. Why had she gone here? A bitter thought snaked its way into her mind. _Where else do I have to go?_ She was still staring disconsolately at the unassuming wooden door when it opened. 

"Well come along in, then, dearie. No cause to go poking about in hallways, making a stumble-stone of ye'self." The old woman cackled as Cwen blinked dumbly at her. "These old ears of mine still got a good bit 'a use in them, don't you doubt, sweetpea. They've got a right liking for dancer steps. Now get ye in here." 

Obediently, Cwen stepped inside and Amity closed the door behind her. "Ah, it is so nice to have a room of me own with a proper door an' all, and here's thanking you again, lassie. Now have a seat an' tell an old lady what's troubling you." So saying, Amity seated herself comfortably on the edge of her simple mattress, motioning Cwen Leaf down beside her. 

She found herself at a loss for words. "I—well, it's just—I've got to leave!" she burst out. "Somehow. I just—can't—oh, I don't even know why I'm telling you this!" The old woman's face, understanding and pitying, was suddenly too much. She burst into tears, as she realized she'd wanted to do since that first, horrible moment. Amity—bless her old heart—didn't try to say anything, only took her in warm, motherly arms, and held her close, rocking her until her spasms of tears subsided, and she choked out the painful story of the day's events. 

Finally she pulled away, wiping her face. "I'm sorry. I should—go. After everything you've done—this is dangerous! I don't want to cause trouble for you." 

Amity shook her head, clucking her tongue chidingly. "Oh, never you worry yourself about me, sugar. I didn't get to be this old without learning me a trick or two. I've got my ways." 

"But-" 

"None of that now," Amity interrupted firmly. "You listen to me now; you've got some serious decisions to make. Do you still have your iron bit?" 

Cwen's hand rose guiltily to finger the bit of dark metal that lay biting into the gold behind the three beryls of her collar. It had been something Amity had insisted on, before providing the lessons, and Cwen had wanted so much to learn that she had humored the old woman. Things had never been quite the same after that, she thought in retrospect. 

She had not lost any of her devotion to Lord Shaen—indeed, she had felt almost more fervent—but for the first time an element of uncertainty and worry had crept into her mind. And things had always seemed to be distracting her: at first only coming up with ways to make Amity's life easier, and then, more and more, the problems of other slaves around her pulled at her attention. Had _she_ changed? Enough that His feelings towards her might diminish? 

Amity's brisk voice pulled her way from her miserable self-contemplation. "Good girl. Now then, have you given any thought to where you want to go? Assuming for a moment that leaving is not a problem." 

Cwen could only shake her head mutely. Given thought to leaving? She could barely even wrap her mind around the truth that she must go. "Where could I? Even if I could get to the wilds, I wouldn't know how to take care of myself." She shuddered, at the thought of being out there alone; starving, dying. Alone. The word hurt to think. 

"Well…" Amity examined her thoughtfully. "What do you know about wizards?" 

Cwen Leaf's eyes flew open, and she turned an automatic, frightened glance towards the door, though she knew the room was intentionally located in an isolated portion of the manor. She turned back to face Amity, who was calmly waiting for her response. 

"What do I know?" she said faintly. "Well, they're halfbloods, who have somehow survived to adulthood. The Elvenlords thought they were destroyed, but they turned up again. With the Elvenbane. And dragons. They fought a second war and… the Elvenlords don't say it, but they must have won. Something still has them stirred up, and it's not just the Young Lords." 

Amity cackled with delight. "Very good! You're quick as a whip, girl! I knew there was a reason I liked you!" The old woman rubbed her hands together. "Now then, I suppose you've already guessed where I'm going with this? Good then, I think its time I introduced you to Jemayne. She's fixing to make a run for the wizards, and if anyone can get you out of here, it'll be her. She's got the human magic." 

Cwen could only stare blankly. "The—the what?" 

"Human magic, lamb." 

"Human magic?" 

"That's what I said, hon. Oh, don't act so surprised! What do you think makes the wizards so frightening to the elves, if not the magic from both sides?" Her old face suddenly became stony. "You wouldn't have heard of it—or seen it. They cull any children that show the signs. Maynee slipped by in the confusion of those last few years when the Old Lord was ailing. Poor dove had no idea what was happening to her when her magic woke and started fighting the collar." 

"Now then." Amity levered herself up, and started toward the door. "You'll have to leave right off—not too bad, Jamayne's been spoiling to get a move on. She's all set, and you can grab a bit more from the kitchens, but it's going to be tight." She shook her head as Cwen opened her mouth. "Hush now, out we go!" So saying, the remarkable old woman headed out the door at a brisk pace, and Cwen found herself with no choice but to hurry and keep up. 

******************* 

Cwen looked over at the shadowy figure moving beside her, darkly cloaked and silent as she was, and then up at the night sky. Her head still spun from the rush of the night's events. 

Jemayne had turned out to be a small, sharp-tongued kitchen slave, who had tartly informed Cwen that she was only along as a special favor to Amity, and that she'd better not make _too_ big a nuisance of herself. Cwen would have been annoyed by her constant grumblings if she hadn't realized that she _was_ a burden to the other girl, and a horrible risk as well. She had even said as much to Amity, in those dismal last few moments before they parted company. The old woman had paused and taken Cwen's face between her hands, looking into her face seriously. "I have faith in you _Cye'rriah_. You have more resources than you know." 

The unfamiliar word rang strangely in Cwen's ear. "What does—that mean?" 

Amity shook her head, with a low, affectionate chuckle. "It means… Flame Spirit. And that holds a meaning you shall have to discover on your own, my bright one." She smiled into Cwen's eyes for a long moment, then laid a motherly kiss on her forehead. "When you get to the Citadel, tell them Amarhys sent you." 

After that, there hadn't been time for anymore questions or conversations. 

Jemayne grabbed her arm, calling her attention back to the present, and together they crouched down behind the shelter of a tower of boxes, stacked against a wall. They both made no more than a whisper of noise, Cwen moving with the natural grace of a dancer, and Jemayne with the hard-learned caution of a common-slave. 

Cwen looked to Jemayne, and the other girl made a brief gesture, ahead, and to the left, the direction in which she sensed thoughts. They were relying heavily on the girl's mind-magic to avoid detection. The idea of human magic still left Cwen feeling slightly dazed, yet Jemayne had proved the worth of her abilities several times over already this evening. 

_Whereas I…_ Cwen shook her head. She could dance, sing songs, perform all the useless amusements of a clever pet, and she was good in bed, to put it bluntly. It occurred to her to wonder if she'd even be welcome in the Citadel. _What value do I have, other than as a toy? Do I even have the right to be angry at Him?_

Jemayne tugged irritably at her arm, and together they moved on through the night. 

****************************** 

"Everything's changed, and I want to believe   
There must be a reason, there just has to be   
Cause my faith was strong,   
till it all hit home   
And it's not enough for me to trust   
When it hurts too much

"On the days I feel like I've failed you   
The days I feel I've been failed   
I need You by me  
For I am Yours, I was Yours 

"Where is the power, to give what I gave   
Give back the strength   
Give back the faith I had yesterday   
Cause you were my All   
You were my Everything

"And I know I have fallen but…  
I have landed in healing hands."

(An alteration of Kristy Starling's "Something More") 

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A/N: Wow. I didn't think Amity's part would wind up being so long, but for some reason, I really like her. ^_^ What do you think? It's a good thing she had a plan (of sorts) 'cause I sure didn't! ^_^U 

I hope this chapter wasn't to slow—I promise to put more action in the next one! Heh- maybe Kyrtian will show up! 

Anyway, please tell me what you think! Pleasepleaseplease. If you like, I update. If I get 5 reviews the next chapter will be up in a week. Okay? Hm? *big eyes.* 

Cookies to all the people who reviewed last week, and thanks again! ^_^_^_^ 


	3. Change of Heart

A/N: Here's a big thank you to the people who reviewed! It wasn't five, but 8 reviews is a record for me, so I'm thrilled. ^_^ As promised here's the next chapter.

Disclaimer: The Halfblood Chronicles belong to some one else. None of this belongs to you. Unless you ARE Mercedes Lackey or Andre Norton, in which case, can I have your autograph? ^_^

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V'kel Shaen Lord Kavoes drummed his fingers against his chair arm irritably. The slaves were being maddeningly slow again. Really, how long did it take to summon one slave girl? Though there was no one around to see, he worked to keep his face impassive. It was bad enough listening to the subtle taunts of his peers these past few months. He didn't want to give the slaves any ideas. He was _not_ over-attached to that damned concubine! 

Was it his fault that the Kavoes estates had been in such horrible disarray by the time the wretched old man finally died that he was still dealing with the mess today? _Just like Father to keep a claw-hold on life for two years longer than his mind. Rot him._ Shaen shifted angrily, forgetting his earlier intentions. 

It certainly wasn't his fault Father's old concubines were in such bad condition as to fetch almost no return at the slave market. Just because he'd decided to pool his money for one decent concubine, instead of a collection of half-rated ones, didn't mean he felt anything for her. Ancestors, he wasn't a _pervert_! 

_Damn father, anyway._

Shaen shook his head and growled. He sounded like a petulant child, and he knew it. He was just in a foul mood about being maneuvered into taking that bet. What on earth would he do if he lost it? He couldn't afford to just go tossing around expensive slaves like that. He supposed he _could_ scrape up the money to buy another if he had to. He hadn't before because, well, there were always other places that needed the money more. 

_Still, if I win…_ He smiled inwardly, treasuring the idea. That would take that smug, superior smile off Refien's face. 

His attention returned to the present. Really, what _was_ taking so long? He was going to have to see to it that somebody got lashed. He couldn't have the slaves getting lax. He drummed his fingers again, impatience growing. He was almost tempted to get up and go look himself, though the idea was ludicrous. An Elvenlord taking over a slave's job! Running around tracking down human females because his slaves were feeling lazy! Somebody was definitely going to be lashed. 

He usually summoned Cwen Leaf every evening, but he had put it off yesterday, the thought of seeing her bothering him for some reason. He hoped he hadn't let the taunts get to him _that_ much. Whatever the cause, it was perhaps as well. She would be especially eager to please him, to absolve herself of whatever guilt she had imagined the last day. The state he was in, he was looking forward to her soothing presence. 

His sensitive ears picked up approaching footsteps, and he quickly hid a frown. They were the wrong weight. Resettling himself in his chair, he assumed a cold, marble face, the embodiment of a displeased lord. A middle-aged human man scurried in, bobbing anxiously several times before almost prostrating himself on the floor. 

Shaen's eyes narrowed minutely. The human was one of those with a position of nominal responsibility, directly under an elven overseer. What was _he_ doing here? "Well? Speak." 

The man raised his head for one frightened glance before dropping back to his supine position. Trembling, he spoke into the floor. "My lord, the concubine can not be found. She is gone!" 

"What?" Uncomprehending, Shaen reached out with his magic, feeling for the girl's collar spell. And encountered…nothing. 

The slave was still talking, stammering in his attempt to respond to Shaen's earlier question. "We've scoured the whole manor, my lord; she must have run! Search teams have been out on the grounds; we-" 

"Enough." Shaen cut the man's babbling short with a flick of magic. Anger blossomed white-hot behind his eyes. _She would betray me?!_ He could feel the tingle of a levin-bolt at the ends of his fingers, and awareness that the true target of his wrath was currently unassailable only barely prevented him from striking the slave in front of him dead. 

From white-hot, his rage abruptly became ice-cold, as he focused on one thought. _I will find her. I will hunt her, and I will drag her back here to face the consequences. For this she will beg forgiveness on bended knee._

His voice was toneless and calm, though wintry, when he spoke. "Send Tarren to me. I want a team assembled." 

***********************************

Cwen Leaf sat up, rubbing sore feet as she drew her single blanket closer about her. Last night had been a lot of firsts for her. First biscuit-jerky dinner. First night spent sleeping outside. First time to sleep on the ground. On a rock. With the bugs. This following an entire evening and day of traveling on foot and nerve-wracking hiding everytime anything human or elven came too close—which was often. That behind her was enough to make her almost _too_ mentally and physically exhausted to sleep. 

But, as Jemayne had pointed out cooly, they needed to get farther than anyone expected them to. And since, with her abilities, traveling in daylight was not impossible, travel in daylight they did. _First discovery that hiding in hay is _not_ fun,_ Cwen thought with sardonic humor. She rubbed her arms at the memory.

She was surprised Jemayne hadn't already woken and dragged them both off again. The girl seemed infected with a manic fervor, driving both Cwen and herself so relentlessly, that Cwen would have been worried if she had not seen her drop straight into a deep sleep afterwards. The girl was positively frightening when she set her mind to something. 

She sighed, and started packing up the few items they carried with them, so that they'd be ready to leave sooner. No point changing her clothes—the only thing she had other than the borrowed tunic and loose pants she had on now was the silk dress she had been wearing. _Much use I'll get out of it in these woods,_ she thought, digging out breakfast for the two of them. 

She flinched at a scuffling noise in the trees to her right, and eyed the small, bushy-tailed source warily, relaxing only slightly. She thought it might be a squirrel—she'd read about them somewhere—but she couldn't be certain. Jemayne might know; she could recognize any animal that had been brought into the kitchen. 

Could one eat squirrels? She felt a little queasy at the idea of killing something. _Which is dumb, considering that I've no problem _eating_ meat._ She knew they were going to have to do _something_ considering their limited food supply. As it was, she examined the dry biscuits and hard wedge of cheese in her hands with subdued distaste. Taking a swig from one of the water flasks, she settled down to gnaw at one of the biscuits, leaning back against a tree. 

She was still applying herself to this task when she heard Jemayne roll over with a low moan. A minute later the girl was on her hands and knees, leaning away from her blankets to throw up in the grass. Cwen jumped to her feet. "Jemayne? Are you all right?" 

The other girl managed a brief, scathing glance in her direction. "Peachy." Abruptly she turned away, her sides convulsing again. 

Ignoring her tone, Cwen moved to kneel beside her, laying an uncertain hand on her back. She didn't have much experience with illnesses… but she was trained how to soothe people. Moving with more self-assurance, she braced Jemayne's head with gentle hands, smoothing her hair out of the way, and holding her firmly as the spasms subsided. Unaware of when she had started, she was humming a soft, lilting melody. 

Finally, Jemayne's stomach seemed to have completely emptied itself, and decided it could bring up no more. Cwen released her even as she moved to push her away. Silently, she got up and passed her the water bottle to rinse her mouth out with. Jemayne accepted it, watching Cwen with a guarded, ambivalent expression. "So that's why-" she fell silent, cutting herself off. Cwen rolled her shoulders uncomfortably in the pause. "So, um, do you think it was something you ate? Some of that meat last night looked a little iffy. Or you could be sick-" 

Jemayne turned away abruptly. "I'm _fine._ You didn't need to do that, you know. I want to be condescended to, and I don't need to be coddled. I've managed fine on my own for years, unlike some." 

Cwen Leaf blinked. "I wasn't trying to…" 

Jemayne continued right over her. "No need for the little elf-pet to trouble herself." 

"I was just…" Cwen trailed off as the words sunk in. Her eyes tightened, but she only closed her lips and looked away. _She's sick. And… after all, isn't it true? That's what you were, and that's probably all anyone will ever see you as._

As if taking her withdrawal as basis to attack, Jemayne turned back toward her. "I've seen you around the estates before. Not that someone like you would ever actually notice a _common_ slave. Always so busy running to lick your master's feet. The way you act—still!—how am I to know you won't give us both away to the first elf who gets close enough?" 

Cwen kept her eyes fastened on the ground, her voice low. "I'm not going to." She couldn't afford to get angry. _(Do I have the right?)_ She couldn't even afford to feel hurt. _What if she sends me away? Amity's not here…_

Jemayne interrupted her thoughts. "I should, shouldn't I?" 

The second implication of those words struck only and instant after the first made her heart fall. Her eyes narrowed. Something flared within her. "Get out of my head!" Furiously, she spun to face the other girl. "I don't care if you think I'm a burden or a threat or a cosseted fool! You have no _right_!" 

Jemayne actually took a step back. "I have the right to protect myself," she said quietly. 

"No. No you don't." Cwen's voice followed the other girl's, becoming similarly quiet, if still fierce. "Not like that. You have the right to send me off on my own, if you don't think you can trust me, but you don't have the right to go poking about in my head." 

"Actually I can't." Jemayne fiddled with a lock of her short, shockingly light, blonde hair. "Go poking about I mean. I only pick up the surface thoughts." She tucked the lock away as Cwen glared at her. Then she actually flashed a grin, the first real smile Cwen had seen out of her since they had met. "But you are absolutely right. It was completely wrong of me, even if you _were_ broadcasting quite loudly. But I _did_ finally get to find out you've got a backbone in there somewhere." She started gathering up her belongings, oblivious to Cwen's fading anger, and growing consternation. "I figured if Amity liked you, there had to _something_ more to you than meets the eye." She shrugged into her pack, and her demeanor became like that to which Cwen was accustomed. "Took me long enough to pry it out of you, though. The way you act… Well? What are you waiting for? Do you see how high that sun is? We are going to have to _march_ to make up time. Get your pack." 

Cwen found herself amused, and, for the first time, almost liking the girl. Still… "I want a way to know you won't be… picking up my thoughts. If I'm—broadcasting—can you teach me…" 

Jemayne flashed her second smile. "See? There you go. Backbone. And now I say, 'yes, I will.' Or rather I'll try. I'm new at mind-walls myself. And in exchange, you can gather the firewood tonight." She started walking at a brisk pace, and Cwen followed. "Now lemme have one of those blasted time-forsaken biscuits. I'm hungry enough to eat a rock. Which is a good thing, since there's not much difference." 

As Cwen handed her one of the aforementioned biscuits, Jemayne paused one final time to look at the taller girl. "What was it Amity called you? Cyerriah? I flat out refuse to call you some trumped up thing like Cwen-Bush or whatever the pointy-ears came up with." She hesitated seeming to struggle with something. "Cwen, maybe. If you want." 

Cwen Leaf. It was the name He had chosen for her. Before that… she couldn't even really remember. Just 'Girly' and 'Slave.' She thought she remembered her mother calling her 'Baby-girl' habitually. Her mother. A retired concubine-turned-breeder on some far away, long forgotten estate. Her father a gladiator rewarded with a chance to sire a child—a strong, laughing shadow in her memory; a man she had seen only twice, when her mother pointed him out in the practice arena, and once when she was older, and her mother had been assigned to him again. What had become of her past? Of family? 

_"I have faith in you _Cye'rriah_."_ Amity's words. _"It means… Flame Spirit."_

She looked back at Jemayne and smiled. "Cyerriah's fine." 

  
*************************************** 

A/N: Once again my supposedly 'sub'-characters amaze me with how much they have to say. So much for 'I'll just write a brief Lord Shaen prologue.' ^_^U 

To Reviewers: Once again, thanx so much for the feedback. I appreciate it so much!

_Rosethorn:_ Happy? ^_^ I hope you're still enjoying her.

_Wizard116:_ They're great books. ^_^ I'll try to work in enough background information so it's not confusing. I'd be glad to answer any questions.

_Wolfwind:_ *mysterious grin.* Well we'll see, won't we? Muahaha. Thanx for the thoughtful critique, and the compliments.

_Fireblade K'Chona:_ I'm re-reading Elvenborn now! ^_~ (It's my favorite.)

Well, I hope you liked! Please let me know! Please? Hugs and Kisses! The next chapter will be up next Wednesday if I get reviews, okay? ^_^ 


	4. Mind's Touch

A/N: Here's the next chapter, on schedule. ^_^ Thank you to all who reviewed!   
Just a few details: Humans with magic are called mages/magicians. Half-elves = wizards. And elves… are elves are elves. They've all got magic, just to different degrees. Oh, and I figured out the Cwen would technically be called a bondling, not slave. But basically just upper-class slaves—stewards and bodyguards and concubines, etc. So. Now You Know. And me, too. ^_^ 

Disclaimer: Books belong to Lackey and Norton. This plot belongs to me. 

************************************************

She had thought if she dreamed of Him they would be nightmares. Instead she dreamed that the familiar almost-smile widened and grew true. In wistful bliss, she dreamed that they laughed, and for once His beautiful voice held no trace of mockery. 

She would have preferred the nightmares. These dreams hurt too much. 

*********************************************** 

"Okay, now try that again," Jemayne coached, as they picked their way through a copse of trees. "This time think: 'Fish.' Fishfishfishfishfish." It had almost two days since they had needed to hide from anything, and the reprieve showed in their relaxed demeanors. 

Cwen—or Cyerriah, as she was gradually growing accustomed to—obediently concentrated on fish. _Fish._ The mind shield progress had not gone well, and Jemayne was growing more creative everyday. That was not a good thing. _Fish. FishFish._ If this didn't work soon she was going to throw herself in the next lake and beat a trout to death. 

"If you do, let me have a bite, okay?" Jemayne commented. "I am heartily tired of biscuits, and I can't even kill them." 

Cwen blew out a frustrated breath of air. "Fish!" She glared at Jemayne. "This isn't working." 

"Swim, trout, swim!" Jemayne quipped dryly, and then quailed under another fierce glare. She muttered something dark about 'backbones.' "Well, I don't know! We've tried walls, and blocks, and misdirection, and who knows what else. I've told you, I'm new at this myself, and _I_ have the advantage that I can tell when I'm shielding or not. For all I know that blasted collar of yours could be getting in the way." 

Cwen frowned, her hand automatically going to the intricately worked gold about her neck, and the bit of dark metal hidden beneath it. Jemayne's plainer common-slave collar had long since been removed, a non-functioning look-alike taking its place. Currently it lay in the farthest depths of one of the bags. Cwen's own… 

Well, there was problem as always. _I'm a burden and a threat._ The multiple beryl-stones of a concubine's collar meant that the clam-like iron device that had been used on Jemayne's would not fit. Cwen's own iron piece did no more than separate the collar from contact with her—blocking the effect of the beryls rather than de-activating them. So her collar remained on, its gold a continuous declaration of what she was. A concubine. A run away. A threat. 

Cwen's hand clenched. 

Jemayne, oblivious, was grumbling on. "…anyway. Maybe we're expecting too much. Amity said this could take years." 

"Amity." The name cast a bit of a pall over the otherwise bright day. "She should be _here,_ Jemayne. She should have come. What if something happens?" 

Jemayne looked away with a frown, growing moody, as she often did when serious subjects came up. "She kept insisting she wasn't finished where she was. Rot the stubborn old woman." 

Cwen actually managed a chuckle, though a subdued one. "Stubborn as stone. You know, when she said she was going to be cleaning up after us, I half got the impression she was planning to run about hiding our tracks and laying false trails." 

Jemayne shook her head. "I wouldn't put _anything_ past that old woman. Hey, look! Blackberries." Her mood shifting abruptly, she grinned, rubbing her hands together. With her small figure, and shock of light hair she looked amazingly pixie-like. "We've made good time, let's take a break." 

Cwen smiled, and rolled her eyes. "Jemayne? Suggesting a break? You really are hungry." 

Jemayne sniffed, the effect marred as she pricked her hand on a thorn and stuck a finger in her mouth. "Don't complain. Help me pick." 

Cwen laughed, and started in, but her eyes occasionally rested on the smaller girl with concern. Jemayne never talked about it, but she had thrown up three more times in four days that Cwen knew of. Not only that but she looked—tired. Strained, and on edge. 

Once she had woken Cwen up in the middle of the night, tossing and turning as if from a fever dream, or a nightmare. She hadn't wanted to wound the other girl's sensitive pride by waking her up, but she had sung a soothing melody until her sleep quieted. _What will I do if she gets really sick?_

She no longer worried that her thoughts would be overheard—at least intentionally. Jemayne had been as good as her word, as far as she could tell, listening in only during a lesson. And Cwen was almost certain she would have been able to tell if the girl was eavesdropping. Prickly as she was, Jemayne did not break promises. 

She sighed, looking for something to distract herself. Mentally, she started going over the steps of what she thought of as the Dance. It was strange really; she learned so many dances over the years and yet none of them had ever really caught her attention like this one. Most of them she didn't even like to think about any more. This one… somehow she knew that she would have continued practicing it even though it hadn't pleased Shaen. 

The movements drew you along... complex, and still tricky _there_--with the next one _so_… and then coming together wonderfully for the next part. Without thinking moved into a few of the warm-up steps, her mind falling into the rhythm of the Dance. 

"Cyerriah." Jemayne had to repeat herself several more times before she caught the other girl's attention. "_Cyerriah!_" 

She blinked, snapping back to reality. Jemayne was staring at her with the oddest expression. "What?" 

The other girl spoke slowly, with carefully controlled excitement. "Whatever you were doing just then, I think you should do it again." 

Cwen's brow furrowed in confusion. "What? Jemayne…" 

"Do it!" 

Still frowning with consternation, Cwen decided to humor her, and started mentally running through the steps again, moving slowly through a few of them. 

"That's it—almost!" Jemayne's voice radiated excitement. "Oh, I wasn't wrong, you had it perfect a moment ago!" 

Cwen growled, and came to a halt. "Exactly what is this about, oh ambiguous one?" 

Jemayne flashed her teeth. "You, oh slow student, were shielding. Just then, when you started that dance thing. And just a minute ago, you were doing it partially." 

"What?!" 

Jemayne smirked and raised her voice. "YOU WERE SHIELDING!" 

Cwen found herself too excited to even be irritated. "Ouch, yes, I heard that! But how?" 

Jemayne folded her hands, a familiar glint in her eye. "_That_ is exactly what we are going to find out. Come on, Cyerriah, break's over. Stuff some of those berries in that sack and let's get started." 

********************************************* 

As it happened, things progressed rather quickly from there. Jemayne was once again demonstrating her zealous dedication to a task, and Cwen was almost relieved that some of the girl's energies were being channeled in a different direction. At least while she was pushing Cyerriah to her limits, she wasn't pushing herself so hard. 

For her own part, she felt a continuous glow of wonder and self-satisfaction. _I can do this! It's just a small thing, but it's something I can do. Maybe…_ A smile touched her face, and she rolled over, lost in happy contemplation. It was very early in the morning, and she'd barely slept at all, but she was unwilling to rise just yet. 

They never had figured out what it was about the Dance that put Cwen's shields up, though Jemayne had more than a few hypotheses. But with steady work, Cwen had been able first to shield without actually moving through the steps, and later to cease mentally running through them, holding only to the peculiar, trance-like mind-set that remained. Gradually, she was making that mind-set habitual. 

Jemayne said what she was doing wasn't precisely like mind-shielding, though she had been unable to put the difference into words. "It's not like I can't get in," the girl had tried to explain, "but more like your mind's there, only different. As if your sense of self was so strong that I couldn't touch it, or feed anything into it. Like a fire rather than a wall." As long as it worked, Cwen didn't care. 

_My mind is my own._ She still wasn't sure why she was so vehemently set on this matter. All she knew was that once, she had allowed love to shape her to another's will. Once, she had trusted too much. Now, she was only just beginning to discover aspects of herself she hadn't known existed. Now, she still bled from a wound created by trust. 

_My mind is my own._

She shivered, and finally sat up, blinking in the dim early morning light. The air was chill, and she folded the blanket over her shoulders like a shawl. They had had extremely good luck with the weather so far; she hoped it wasn't taking a turn for the worse. _I should make sure Jemayne's not getting cold._

But when she turned to check on the other girl, her blankets were empty. Cwen sat still for a few moments, staring at the tousled bedding. "Oh, Jemayne." She didn't know why the girl felt compelled to hide her illness, except perhaps as a sign of weakness she did not want to share with Cyerriah. But she had suspected something like this might be going on. 

Cwen got up, scanning the trees around her. _Can't she see how worried I am? Why won't she let me help?_ The thoughts overlaid another more troubling one. _What isn't she telling me?_

Finally, she decided to try along the stream. _As likely a place as any._ Setting off, she picked her way through the trees in the general direction she recalled, listening carefully for the sound of running water. 

Instead, the sound of several, low, distinctively male voices made her freeze, instinctively reaching deeper into the shield-trance that guarded her mind. Questions buzzed frantically through her head. _What?! How did they slip past Jemayne?—oh, high lords, Jemayne!!_ Every fiber of her body was trembling with the desire to bolt, but somehow she edged herself carefully nearer, and nearer to the source of those voices. _Maybe… maybe I can find Jemayne and we can get out of here. Maybe…_

The sound of raucous laughter up ahead curdled her stomach. It was a cruel sound. She huddled at the edge of the small clearing, not daring even to peek out. The voices carried clearly now, a malevolent smudge against the stream's murmuring backdrop. 

"…d'joo go an put 'er out for, eh? Tha's no fun." 

Sound of a smack. "Idyit, she's a mage. Y' didn't wanna get zapped, did ya?" 

_Jemayne!_ Her mind spun frantically. _What do I do?!_

"Aww, Gein coulda took her. S' little an' all. Couldn't ya, Gein, buddy?" 

"Maybe, Maybe not. Why bother? Sneak 'n bash is safer. Let's get 'er stuff." 

"Heh heh, cute li'l snippet, ain't she? No collar, neither." 

Cwen couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Why did she feel so cold inside? Numb, like a sculpture of ice. Like she'd never moved or breathed or felt before. 

A low moan. "Hey, look she's comin' round. Let's get th' loot." 

"Doesn't matter. Gein's got 'er prop'ly shielded now. Come on, I wanna have some fun." 

Cold. To cold even for fear. But within the void, something else was growing now. An icy fury rose within her, driving away all uncertainty. In silent, futile wrath, she gathered herself into a predator's crouch, and then exploded from the bushes. 

****************************************************** 

**A/N:** Dun dun dun! See? I told you something would happen sooner or later. Are you excited? What will happen?! Will you review? (That's *my* cliff-hanger.)   
Next Time: Some actual characters from the book! Yaaaaaay!!! 

Review Response:

_Rosethorn_: That's just the way Shaen is. ^_^ As for Jemayne—I'm really liking her too, especially since she wasn't even supposed to _be_ a main char. Poor sick Maynee. Did you guess? You'll find out next chapter…

_Lizai_: Si, there are THREE wonderful books. Elvenbane, Elvenblood, Elvenborn. Read them all! I command you!

_Everyone:_ Thanka much! Virtual what-not for everyone. ^_^   
Please review, and the next chapter'll be ready in a week! 


	5. Flame's Dance

20 reviews! Woot! ^_^ Thanx all, so much. I was happy enough to actually get this chapter up on time, despite all obstacles. And without further ado or pointless rambling, I go straight to: 

The disclaimer: Oops. Oh, well. The Halfblood Chronicles belong to Mercedes Lackey and Andre Norton. This is just a fanfic. But it's _my_ fanfic. Paws off!

All right, this time for sure. Enjoy!

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Cyerriah struck the first man, still airborne, in the back, sending them both toppling head first to the ground. On impact, she went limp, rolling loose of the tangle of limbs and hard angles. 

"What th-!" His two companions spun to face her, briefly too startled to react. On the ground behind them she caught a glimpse of a small, motionless form; a tangle of blonde hair. Cold anger swelled, as she flowed to her feet, half-skipping to avoid the flailing arms of the winded man on the ground. 

The larger of the two men, recovering his senses, made a lunge at her, swinging meaty fists. She ducked, and twisted agilely under and around, spinning automatically to sweep her leg into a kick that knocked his feet out from under him. It felt—natural. Instinctive, almost. Like her body had done this before—like it was moving on its own. Fingers closed on her ankle, and she lashed out with her foot, feeling it connect with a chin even as she tumbled backward to the ground. 

She rolled, and came back to her original crouch. Abruptly, the familiarity of the situation came together. She had knelt like this in the Great Hall that day, before Lord Shaen. At the end of the Dance. _Steps… from the Dance. All of them, different combinations—patterns…_ She felt a wonderful click in her mind as if everything was falling into place. 

Suddenly a flash of energy filled her vision, and she cringed in abject panic —_I forgot the mage!!_ Her muscles seized too late, trying to move, even as it flowed over her and—vanished? She blinked bemusedly, still seeing stars, her mind not quite acknowledging what had happened. 

The magic-user recovered quickly, growling with frustration. "This un's got iron on 'er. Can't read 'er either." 

"Well then, we'll jus' have to take it from 'er." A greedy, possessive chuckle. "It'll fetch a good price, too." 

_What?_ She blinked again. Oh. _Oh._ She vaguely recalled Amity explaining something to her about this. Iron interfered with all magic, not just the collar-spell. 

One of the two she had knocked down was back on his feet—the one who had spoken. The other…didn't look like he'd be getting up anytime soon. Still, he moaned, and struggled feebly, and a distant part of Cyerriah's mind felt somehow relieved. But only a very small part. 

The mage eyed her for a few moments, as they stood in a strange sort of stalemate. Finally, he tapped the short wooden club he was holding into his palm. "It's back o' her collar." 

The other man laughed, leering at her. "And a pretty bit o' work that is, too. Real gold, like. I bet this un here's an elf-slut." He advanced slowly toward her, holding a knife, now. "Play nice, li'l girl. You an' me both know you jus' got lucky a few times. Wouldn't wanna see me git real mad, now, would ya? Bet a cute li'l thing like you can think o' a few ways t' calm me down, mm?" 

Her eyes narrowed. He'd better believe she could, and not in the way he was thinking, either. _Castration for a start…_ But she was shaken now, and the gleaming knife seemed to catch and hold her eyes with a strange, atavistic fascination. A shiver ran down her spine. _Maybe if I catch him by surprise…_ She could hear Jemayne stirring. _If I distract the mage… Oh, Maynee, be all right!_

That leering face and glinting knife were drawing closer. There was no more time to think, or even be afraid. _Time to cast the dice._ In one rapid motion she feinted right, and then leapt-tumbled-dodged around the man in the other direction—the side _with_ the knife, despite all her instincts, and hopefully the direction he wouldn't expect. 

She felt the wind of the knife whistling past her cheek, but no more. Knife-man was cursing profusely, and wheeling toward her, the mage was raising his cudgel. But she was past the first, and now she flung herself at the other, hurtling head-down into the mage. 

She struck him, full force, in the stomach, and heard an 'Oof!' as the air was knocked out of him. It weakened his blow—but only slightly. The club grazed against her skull and impacted with her shoulder, sending her staggering to the ground, stunned. It hurt. A lot. 

Large hands caught her roughly by the collar from behind, half-choking her as she was slammed up against a tree. She gasped and coughed, trying to open her windpipe, then struggled just to draw breath as thick fingers reached between collar and skin, prying loose the piece of iron there. 

A sudden wave of dizziness rushed over her as the collar-spell reasserted itself. If she had been on the ground, she would have staggered. As it was, she stopped overtly contesting the man's grip, concentrating her attention solely on keeping her feet and continuing breathing. 

"Got it," announced the one holding her. "Y' okay, there, Gein?" Crude laughter. "Little hell-cat got yeh pretty good, I'd say." 

She heard a soft snarl. "I'll show her good. Little witch!" Abruptly a face loomed in her vision, countenance contorted with anger. The mage caught her chin in a painful grip, leaning close as his companion stepped away. His voice was a venomous hiss. "I'm going t' show y' what kitties that can't keep th' claws in gets, y' little slut!" 

Cyerriah's hand clenched. The collar's effect was growing; she had to struggle to focus her attention away from the strengthening compulsions that warred within her. Putting all her strength behind it, she swung her arm up; slamming her fist into the mage's nose. 

She heard the shriek of pain and rage as he went down, heard the angry yelp of the other man. But she was aware of little else. She barely even flinched as the man back-handed her to the ground at one side. 

*********************************

Jemayne fought her way up through a blanket of pain. It seemed at first, a diffuse, suffocating thing, omnipresent in each ragged breath and every sluggish thought. Gradually she became aware that the pain radiated from one throbbing point, an aching lump at the back of her skull, shooting out tendrils of fire. She heard someone moaning, and abstractedly identified the voice as her own. _I should do something about that,_ she thought vaguely. But it was much easier to simply drift… _I wonder who hit me._ The thought, random, triggered a sort of indefinite unease within her. A distant fragment of her consciousness stirred, crying out: _No! Not again!_ Disquieted she reached for her magic, as a child would a comfort blanket. 

The sensation was that of running into a blank wall. 

Helpless. Again. The murmuring fragment reared to the fore-front of her mind. _No!_ Panic, terror, and rage swept through her, wave after wave crashing down. Anger won. _Never again!!_

Her mind battering furiously at the mental block, she simultaneously clawed her way up into consciousness, shouldering aside pain and dizziness with heedless determination. Her eyelids flickered, then opened to narrow slits, darkness sliding in and out of her vision, as she blearily tried to absorb her surroundings. 

She noticed the voices first, and then, as she focused, made out the words. Her anger flared, and, beneath it, her fear. No longer afraid to move, she was now terrified not to. The pained cry of a familiar voice only intensified her efforts. She forced herself to sit up, fighting back a wave of darkness. 

She could see now, the man who held the shield over her, as he leaned close to Cyerriah, pressing her against a tree. For a moment, another face was super-imposed over his in her vision, another's cruel smile twisted handsome features. 

Cyerriah struck him. 

The shield around Jemayne cracked, then shattered under the weight of her mind. Power, strengthened and intensified by her rage, flowed through her, over her, in her, rushing outwards in an uncontrollable torrent. The current dragged at her mind, pulling it under, submerging it in a blazing white void. 

In that blank space, time did not exist. Thought did not exist. Nothing. Just the radiant intensity of the unleashed power, running itself out, unchecked. 

It might have been an hour, but she thought it was only a few minutes later that it finally faded away. She blinked, clearing her vision. Every blade of grass in the clearing lay plastered flat against the ground, radiating out from the point where she stood. Otherwise, the area showed no sign of damage. 

The first man she noticed, one she hadn't seen before, lay untouched, his eyes wide and terrified, staring at her. He gibbered unintelligibly for a few moments, staggered to his feet, and bolted, abandoning his companions. Of the other two… the mage appeared to still be breathing. His crumpled form lay in a small ring of less-damaged grass, chest moving slightly, and blood trickling from his nose where he had been hit. The other man... his face was frozen in an expression of dawning horror. His hand, lying by his chin, was still curled into the fist he had hit Cyerriah with. 

Jemayne turned away, her stomach twisting and heaving. She felt herself start to shake, from shock, as much as exhaustion. _What did I...? What have I…?_ Still numb and stunned, she looked for Cyerriah. 

She spotted her, and felt a wrenching twist inside herself, as she realized something was wrong. _Did I...?_ Cyerriah was sitting near where she had fallen, her legs drawn up against her chest, her eyes vague and unfocused, as if her attention were turned inward. She seemed almost to vibrate with intensity. 

"Cyerriah!" Jemayne stumbled down beside her, catching hold of her hands. "Cye, please, look at me! What's wrong? Cye, please, I need you to tell me what's wrong!" 

The other shivered, and Jemayne suddenly found herself looking into to green eyes, dark with inner anguish. "Maynee?" The ghost of a smile touched Cyerriah's face. "You're okay. I was worried…" 

"I'm fine," Jemayne said shortly. "Cye, what's wrong? Cye! What happened? Did I…?" 

Cyerriah drew one hand back, clutching at her collar. "Lost my iron piece… hurts. Spell's messing with my head. Like being torn in two. Won't go back… but I _need_ to. Can't! Ah!" She broke off, pressing her fists into her eyes. "It keeps getting worse!" 

"It's all right." Anxiety pressed down upon all the other strains her body had gone through today, and Jemayne's voice shook. "It's all right, Cye, hang on. I can fix this." She looked around, her hands brushing automatically through the flattened grass. "I can find it. Just hold on." She just had to look for where the magic was warped, that's all. She tried to focus her mage-sight, tried to touch her magic. She felt so numb. _Just one little thing. That's all… _ "I can find it." She found herself shaking with exhaustion when she tried to touch her magic, felt a cold sluggishness seep into her, as even that small effort sapped the remnants of her energy. I can't! I can't do this! 

She staggered, and caught herself against a tree. Her voice was a whisper. "Hang on, Cye." She leaned into the rough dark, clenching her fists, and fighting the urge to break into exhausted tears. _Please, someone help me! Oh, please!_

The reply came as if the words had been spoken directly into her mind. _:Don't worry. We're coming.:_

*************************************** 

Jemayne sat, clutching the knife she had taken from the dead man. Maybe no one was coming. Maybe, tired as she was, she had hallucinated the voice. Maybe the voice _was_ real. That didn't mean she could trust it. Her eyes flicked to the man still lying unconscious at the edge of the clearing. She had proof enough that not all magic-users were well-intentioned. 

She stiffened, and jerked to her feet, as she heard noises approaching through the trees. Hand tight on the knife, she stood defensively over Cyerriah, still fighting her own internal battle. 

A half-dozen people entered the clearing slowly, as if she were a skittish animal that might spook. Eyes taking in the two men, Cyerriah, the knife, they stopped carefully at the edge of the copse. She strained to keep her hand and voice steady, pointing with the knife. "Stay away!" 

A tall young man, with dark hair spoke. Among his strange, dark-skinned companions, his familiar pale skin was almost comforting. "Easy, there. We're not going to hurt you. We want to help." 

She almost snarled. "Says who?" 

"I'm a wizard. My name is Mero Jenner." 

She met his crystalline green eyes, so similar to those that another face had worn. Jemayne's lip curled. "Don't think that having Elven blood is going to recommend your character to me." 

The man, Mero, actually chuckled. "Point taken. But if you like, you may examine my mind for yourself. You know how?" 

She nodded, taken by surprise. When he made no move to retract his offer, she cautiously extended mental feelers towards his mind. He did not let her too deeply into mind, true, opening only the surface layer of thoughts to her, but she could read there friendliness, integrity, and honest good intentions. The relief was so great that the tears that had been threatening to fall almost broke through. Jemayne let the knife drop from her fingers. 

"And, if you will allow?" 

She nodded mutely, and lowered her own shields, feeling the light brush of his mind across hers as he assured himself of her own truthfulness, and reviewed the events of the last few hours. She was reminded of the sticky lump at the back of her head, and her overwhelming weariness. She found herself starting to sway, and he caught her arm. She opened her mouth to tell him she was _fine_ and to let go, but the words never made it to her lips. Instead, she thoroughly discomfited her pride by passing out. 

************************************************

**_My Immortal  
by Evanescence _**  
I'm so tired of being here  
Suppressed by all my childish fears  
And if you have to leave  
I wish that you would just leave  
'Cause your presence still lingers here  
And it won't leave me alone

These wounds won't seem to heal  
This pain is just too real  
There's just too much that time cannot erase

When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears  
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears  
I held your hand through all of these years  
But you still have  
All of me

You used to captivate me  
By your resonating life  
Now I'm bound by the life you left behind  
Your face it haunts  
My once pleasant dreams  
Your voice it chased away  
All the sanity in me

These wounds won't seem to heal  
This pain is just too real  
There's just too much that time cannot erase

I've tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone  
But though you're still with me  
I've been alone all along

***************************************************

**A/N:** Phew! I didn't think I was going to finish. I had serious issues writing this chapter, plus I've been sooooo busy. Right now I have to run off and finish an application, study for a test, do my bio review, Auugh! But I got it done! ^_^ What'd you think? I hope you like it. _Please review!! _

Hey, ten points to anyone who spots the _Wheel of Time_ quote, and names the char. ^_^ Heh heh, couldn't resist. 

_Review Responses:_  
_Wizard116:_ Thanx! ^_^ Well, you'll find out next chapter. Hope you liked this one. 

_Pearl:_ Um, not sure exactly what you're referring to. I don't think their are any intentional resemblances. I worry sometimes that people will think Cye's a rip off of Rennati. She's not! Really! They actually have very different personalities. ^_^; But I do try to hold out on my readers as much as possible! Mwhahaha! 

_Nesuto:_ Yeah, I was kind of surprised when I went to upload the first chapter, and I couldn't find any other Halfblood fics. *Blinks.* I'm glad people actually read mine. ^_^ 

_Rosethorn:_ Hm. I'm still using her right now, maybe you can ask her when I'm done! ^_~ 

And again, thank you much to all who reviewed. Makes my day!  
C ya next week!   
-Li 


	6. Interlude

Aaagh, sorry for lateness. I got smacked upside the head by Real Life. Very painful. So, due to lack of sleep, and time, I am very behind and will probably continue to be so for another week or two. But, good news, I'll be getting most of the academic crisis-es done with next week. After that, I'll be back to writing regularly again. Sorry-sorry. Please don't forget me? 

Today I've got a little thing I'm calling an interlude—not enough for an actual chapter, but something to tide you over, hm? Thanx much!

-Li 

~Interlude~ 

The Elvenlady ran the brush through her silver-blonde hair in long, smooth strokes. Green eyes gazed peacefully at her reflection in her dressing table mirror, as a handful of equally mild and quiet slaves waited patiently on her whim. Their stillness only enhanced the surreal quality of the scene, as if the solitary motion of the brush had gotten somehow stuck, and now played out endlessly, over and over. 

Shaen watched uncomfortably, from the doorway of the bower, wondering why he had come. Not to distract his agitated mind or soothe uneasy nerves, certainly. As always, when entering these rooms, a strange, cold knot had settled somewhere in his chest. 

He cleared his throat, and the brush finally ceased its motion. The Elvenlady turned, a child-like smile lighting her face as she saw him. It seemed somehow inconsistent with the face of a mature Elvenlady, like a fragile, faded blossom lingering in the place of the fruit. She dropped immediately into a respectful curtsy, the human slaves flowing about beside her, as if part of her garments. "My Lord Shaen, I greet you." 

"Mother." He returned a bow, keeping his face impassive, if only because the knot was tightening. "I greet you. I hope I find you well?" 

Her head bobbed, eager to concur. "Yes, my Lord Shaen." 

"And how do things fair?" 

More head bobbing, despite the form of the question. "Well, my Lord Shaen." 

"Did you enjoy your new dresses?" 

"Yes, my Lord Shaen." A beatific smile lit upon her face, and she ventured a shy compliment. "They are most pretty. Shall we have a dinner together, soon? I do so love dinners with you, and I can wear the new silver dress. If it would please my Lord Shaen?" 

The knot ached. There had been a time, hadn't there? A time before she… A before time. "That would be very nice." Shaen tried to make his face reassuring, and encouraging. "We shall have one soon, if it pleases you." 

"Of course, my Lord Shaen." 

_It would be so much easier, if I could just…forget._

Seating himself, he engaged her light, trivial conversation for a little while longer, though it consisted mostly of his questions and his mother's affirmative responses. Still, he thought he could see her thriving subtly beneath the attention, so he persevered, coaxing a few more self-generated responses from her before he withdrew. 

In the hallway, he leaned against the wall, composing his features. He wished could similarly tidy away the tangle of indecipherable emotions in his chest. _Why do I subject myself to this?_

Instead, he vented his pent up anger on the first slave to get in his way, a human female unfortunate enough to have her eye level too high when she came around the corner. Power threw her painfully to her knees, clacking her head against the stone floor, and his voice was icy as he assigned her a lashing for her impertinence. 

The girl fled, shaking, to meet her punishment; far more willing to face the whip than to spend another moment under that deadly green gaze. 

Unaccountably, Shaen found his hands trembling. He stilled them. _Damn all females, anyway!_ She had had dark hair. _Damn all humans. Damn Father. And damn me._

Retreating to his suite of rooms, he rather violently dismissed the slaves, and locked himself in alone. 


	7. Reason to Fear

Hi, everyone! I'm back. I know this took forever. It's amazing how much a little thing like graduating from high school can eat into your free time. Thank you all for putting up with all my delays and absences (At least I hope you are. Are you still there?). NEway, summer's finally here, so hopefully things will get back on track. 

Blek, this chapter took me forever. I think my muse hates me. Course, I kept pulling Rowlings and re-writing sections cause I didn't like the way they were going. But to make up a little for all the lost time, an extra long chapter this week! Hope you like it. 

Oh! One more thing before I get started. Couple people asked about Mero. Actually he _is_ from the books—even the first one. Don't feel bad. Maybe you'd recognize him better as Shadow? For anyone who still doesn't remember, he was a halfblood who was saved by a young elf named Valyn. Valyn (his cousin) kept him secret from his father, and they became good friends. When Mero's life was threatened, they ran away to find the wizards together. And that's all I'm going to say for now. 

Disclaimer: The Halfblood Chronicles do not belong to me. Also, I can really remember anything about the Iron People (and can't get a hold of the 2nd book) so whatever I don't know I'll just make up. Artistic License. 

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Mero ducked through the door flap, and into the tent's airy interior. "How are they doing?" 

The woman he addressed turned towards him with a smile of greeting. With her simple clothes and sun-goldened skin and hair, she was not immediately recognizable for an elf. It was only at closer inspection that one noticed the ears protruding from the hair, too pointed for a wizard, or the surreal grace and too-slender form that marked her for what she was. She bore nothing about her of the fragile and self-effacing creatures that the Elvenlords molded their women into—as she gestured him to sit beside her, Mero reflected with satisfaction that even her shyness had faded, like the cloth of her sun-bleached garments. 

Sheyrena turned back to her charge, smoothing back the girl's blonde hair as she responded. "Oh, well enough, I suppose. Though I wish I was better at this." 

"You're the best there is," Mero interjected, settling beside her. "And you work far too hard already. You may strive to attain deity-hood another time, love. As it is I wonder if I shouldn't be asking how _you're_ doing." He reached out and tipped her face gently towards his, examining her features for signs of strain. 

Rena blushed at the note of concern in his voice, and pushed him laughingly away. "Now don't you start worrying! I may not like them, but I do know my limits!" 

Undeterred, he captured her hand, still gazing intently at her. "And you will be careful not to cross them," he pressed. 

For a moment, she met his gaze with eyes that mirrored his own in color, intensity, and affection. "I will." Then, abruptly lightening the mood, she smiled, teasing, "If only to keep you from fretting yourself into an illness that I shall have to tend." 

Mero laughed, too. Playfully, he clutched her hand against his chest, then drew it to his lips for a kiss. "You break my heart, dear lady. Now, what of our two refugees? Diric was saying that one of them had been up?" 

"Yes, in fact she's out exploring the camp right now. The c—dancer. With the dark hair." Rena abruptly found reason to busy herself with her patient. "She was pretty much set once we got that horrible collar off of her. The bruises and physical damage were easy enough to heal. All she needed was a little rest to recover for the mental shock, poor thing." 

She shook her head angrily, sending blonde hair flying. "I can never quite get over the arrogance of those repulsive 'conditioning' spells. Bad enough to make people slaves, but interfering with their minds? It's like taking away their Self. Their being. What makes them think they have the right?!" 

Mero sighed. "I don't know. The Elvenlords have their own sort of conditioning, I suppose. If you don't acknowledge something as a—person—it's not so hard to ease your conscience about anything." 

Rena smiled bitterly. "By that logic they don't acknowledge the females as people either. But then, I suppose they don't. Father certainly had no qualms about threatening a mind-wipe." She shrugged off the bad memory, as if loosing a jacket from her shoulders, and then sighed herself. "So, what exactly was in this collar-spell?" 

Mero grimaced. "The usual. Loyalty, fear of open spaces, need to be in a certain place, submissive tendencies, etcetera, etcetera. Must have hit her pretty hard considering how far she'd come." 

"Yes, I was surprised she wasn't worse off. She'll probably be rattled for a bit, but… she's a surprisingly strong person." 

"And the other?" Mero glanced at the girl Rena was currently attending. 

"Head wound, bruises, plenty of old damage, and some sort of severe backlash trauma from working with _way_ too much magical power." Rena absently ran a hand through her hair. "That's the hardest because her magic is… different. Human magic. Some of the shock she's suffering just wouldn't be possible for an elf. Or a half-elf as far as I know. We can drain ourselves certainly, even to the point of death. But she looks more like she was… I don't know, mentally burned. Too much power, rather than too little." 

Mero frowned, and shrugged. "I don't know. My teaching runs more to the elven side of my magic than the human. One of the others might know more. Or better yet, we could ask the Citadel to try to find a mage that would come down here. 

Rena nodded. "Well, I think she's on the mend now, but if she's not better within a day or two… that would probably be a good idea. In the meanwhile, I think I've got the physical side of things progressing nicely." 

Sheyrena had been the one to discover that the delicate 'female' magics that the male elves so looked down on were suitable for more than just such trivial pursuits as flower-sculpting and the like. The intricate control and attention to the small that those arts required made their use of magic easily adaptable to many more useful tasks, like making leaves edible, waterproofing clothing, healing… and other things. Rena firmly pushed away the memory of her final confrontation with her father. 

"I can only do so much… after all, it's mostly her body supplying the energy, and she won't have a lot of that to spare for a while. Anyway, I'm expecting her to wake up anytime soon. Hoping, rather. How are things on your side?" 

Mero grimaced again, rolling out sore muscles in his shoulders. "Ai. Well, we managed to track down the one that ran. He didn't make it too far—broken jaw. Apparently our dancer had more fight in her than he expected." Mero grinned savagely. "Now _that_ would have been worth seeing! Filthy bandit. He's one of the gladiators that got loose during the young lords' war." 

His lip curled. "Another escaped slave who can't think of anything better to do with freedom than prey on others. Along with his not-so-dearly departed buddy. The mage on the other hand is wild. Apparently he hooked up with the other two not long after they made their get-away. Anyway, Diric's got one of their iron collars on him, so we won't have to worry about any magic from that quarter. I'm sure the Iron People can come up with uses to put them to." 

Rena looked down at her still battered charge. "Good." 

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Cyerriah wasn't sure if her head would ever stop spinning. Granted, it had cause. She thought she'd had enough shocks, scares, and painful, heartrending, or bewildering experiences in the past few weeks to fill the average human's lifetime quota several times over. _Then again, maybe that's just a little self-important of me._ She ran a hand dazedly through her hair, and struggled to concentrate on her guide's quick chatter, made more complicated by her broken command of the language. Funny really, how it had never even occurred to her that there might be people who didn't speak her own language. Just as she'd never imagined that humans could have skin quite so dark as these people. Why, they were as brown as the elvenlords were fair! 

The Iron People. She rolled the name around in her mind. Wild humans. Her eyes roamed the bustling camp that surrounded her, taking in the colorful clothing, and large tents, with the pens of cattle and the war-bulls the warriors rode nearby. Everywhere, the sun glinted on intricately worked jewelry, and the ringing cry of metal on metal from the all-important forges filled the air. 'Wild,' she contemplated, was a very relative word. 

Her guide said something that she didn't quite catch, and she smiled uncertainly, hoping she didn't look too blank. The small dark-skinned woman shook her head (apparently she did look rather blank) and pointed through the crowd. With her pale blonde hair, and fair skin, the elvenmaid Sheyrena was easy to spot as she made her way toward them. 

Briefly, Cyerriah fought the urge to take off in the opposite direction. It wasn't that Sheyrena didn't seem quite a nice person. Or even that she was an elf—for certain reasons, that might bother Cyerriah at the moment, but she had certainly spent enough time with elves in the past, many of whom were far more formidable than this small creature. It came down to… instinct. Conditioning. Concubines did not interact with Elvenladies. 

_Like that blasted collar…_ It had hurt, finding out all the things that pretty piece of gold was meant to do. Hurt in more ways than one. Firmly, she turned her mind away from that line of thought, starting through the camp to meet the approaching elf. 

"Your friend: she's woken up," Sheyrena spoke, with no preamble. The elven woman managed an awkward smile, looking self-conscious. "She's… a little out of sorts. I think I upset her." 

Cyerriah's heart leapt. "Can I see her? She's all right, isn't she?" 

"Ancestors, yes! To both." Sheyrena ran a restless hand through her hair, as they started back towards the tent. "Actually," she confided after a moment, "we were hoping you could relax her a bit. I left Mero with her, but I don't think she really feels comfortable with him either. Not that I blame her." 

Cyerriah blinked, and looked closer at the elvenmaid, wondering at the strange emphasis on those last words. They should have seemed perfectly ordinary; after all, Cyerriah had been having similar thoughts herself just moments ago. So why… "I'll do what I can." 

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Jemayne was aware that she was dreaming. In fact, it was the only reason she had not become a sobbing, hysterical mass amidst the nightmare images that surrounded her. _This isn't real!_ She clung to that thought, repeating it like a mantra—_not real, not real, not real_— as if she could crowd the growing fear out of her mind. As if she could stop the tiny little fragment of her mind which did cry, which perhaps had never stopped crying. _It was real,_ that part whispered. Fear/Anger/Pain. _It is._

And then, it was all falling away, fading into mere memory, as she struggled up to consciousness. _Haven't I done this before?_ Sarcasm was nice. It made everything seem… apart. Less immediate. Less real. This time, she managed not to reach for her magic; the last few times that had only sent her reeling back into the blackness, and the dreams. 

Gradually she became aware of voices, talking quietly, a dim light filtering through her eyelids, and the sensation of a soothing presence bending over her. Jemayne opened her eyes. 

Green, slanted eyes stared back, framed by too-blonde hair, pointed ears—Jemayne flinched violently away from the distinctly elven face hovering over her, fear jolting pure adrenaline through her veins. "No!" She grabbed desperately for her magic, and this time managed a tenuous hold, although an aching pain seemed to swallow her brain along with it. "Get away!" 

The elvenlord—elf—elven_maiden_ moved back quickly, even as someone else stepped protectively between them. "Easy…" The man—dark hair, but his eyes looked elven; and were his ears a little pointed?—held out his hands in a pacifying gesture. "Easy." His voice was quiet, calming. "Remember me? I'm Mero. This is Sheyrena. She's just been healing you. Do you remember? I promised we'd help." 

Jemayne's rapidly beating heart was quickly taking care of her lingering bleariness. She watched the two warily, her eyes not quite certain which one to fasten on. She spoke slowly. "I…remember." That was right, she had mind-touched him. A bit of calm returned, and she momentarily steadied. Still… Her eyes narrowed. "You never mentioned elves." 

"Rena is a very good healer," Mero soothed, "and a very nice person. You can look into either of our minds again if you like." 

Actually, she wasn't all together sure she could at the moment, a fact she rather desperately wanted to cloak. Her agitation found another outlet. "Where am I? And where's Cyerriah?!" At the last realization she attempted to sit up, and then abruptly aborted the act as the sudden motion sent her head spinning. Automatically, Rena moved to support her. Jemayne recoiled again, sending waves of pain and darkness through her head, and almost upsetting herself from the low cot. Lightning quick, her panic turned to anger. "Don't touch me, elf!" 

The sheer ferocity sent Rena back several steps, and then she remembered herself and retreated still farther, with an unreadable glance at Mero. "I am sorry," she said softly. "I only want to help." 

When Jemayne only glared she turned her face to one side, as if she could find words in the fabric of the tent. "I know my kind has not dealt well with you in the past. The elvenlords…can be very cruel to those in their control." She took another step away, her hair falling forward into her face. "Please be at ease. I will go find your friend." So saying, she ducked through the tent flap, and disappeared. 

Jemayne remained motionless, eying the wizard, who stood a few minutes staring after the elvenmaid. She wasn't altogether certain she liked being alone with the young man any better than the presence of the elf. Actually, all this fear and uncertainty was beginning to irritate her. She felt blazing mad, but she couldn't seem to direct the anger any particular source—rage was a vague, incoherent cloud, as willing to tear away at her as at any target she found. _Blast it all, and why should I feel bad about this? Damned elf._

"She really is just trying to help, you know," Mero said, finally turning back to her. "You might not think it, but the elvenladies are as much the slaves of the lords as the humans. Just in different ways." 

"I find that hard to believe." Bitterness edged her voice like a knife. 

Mero only shrugged, saying simply, "I know." A pause dragged out between them, and eventually he spoke again. "I've been a slave. I was one for most of my life. Luckier than most, I had Valyn to look after me. But still a slave." 

Jemayne refused to ask the obvious question—who was Valyn?—she didn't really feel like speaking at all. She suspected he wanted her to open up and share her problems or whatever. Have a good cathartic cry. Feel all better. Nope. Not happening. _Besides,_ a nasty little voice dug at her, _He was in your head. The damned blasted elf's a healer. They already know your problems._

This time he let the silence stretch between them, and it remained unbroken until— 

"Jemayne!" She turned towards the tent flap, as the tall, dark-haired girl entered. "How are you feeling?" 

Jemayne managed a sardonic smile. "Oh, peachy. Not as well as you, I suppose since I'm the one confined to a bed. The pointy-ears fix you up, Cyerriah?" 

"Sheyrena is right behind me, and yes, she did." Cyerriah stepped aside for the elvenmaid to enter, and tried to hide the smile that wanted to form. She dropped down alongside the girl's cot. Typical Jemayne, down to the last E. "My collar is off, too." She raised a hand to her neck, wondering at how…naked its absence still made her feel. 

"Weird feeling, hm?" Jemayne said, mirroring her thoughts. 

"But a very nice one, I found." They both turned to look at Mero, who leaned back, arching a dark eyebrow. 

The pause only lasted a moment, and then Cyerriah clapped her hands. "Now then. I hear you are being stubborn, Jemayne. Of course, I know Sheyrena is very fearsome and intimidating, but seeing as you _are_ stuck in that bed, you have limited options as I see it." Jemayne opened her mouth but Cyerriah continued brightly right over the top of her. "You can either muster all your courage and graciously allow her to treat you know, or we can wait until you are driven to extremes by sheer boredom." 

She smiled cheerily at Jemayne, who still had her mouth open, and looked torn between outrage and consternation. Mero and Sheyrena both looked like they were trying not to laugh. She hated them all. Coming to her senses, Jemayne snapped her mouth shut. "Definitely the backbone," she muttered darkly. 

Sheyrena took a cautious step forward. "Please, if you will just allow me to look you over." 

Jemayne's eyes were narrowed and her stomach roiled, but she really couldn't see anyway to back out of this with out looking completely feeble. _I am_ not afraid of her. "Fine," she grated, knowing she sounded like a petulant child, and yet unable to manage a better response. Even her customary sarcasm seemed to have deserted her. 

Approval granted, Rena approached her with a strange combination of mildness and firmness, somehow managing to be both utterly unassuming, and courteously determined at the same time. She placed her hands lightly beside Jemayne's temples, with a professionally detached touch, politely ignoring the slight flinch that the girl did not quite manage to conceal. 

Then the elf closed her eyes, focusing her magic. That magic was being utilized in her exam was only indefinitely recognizable, through a vague tingling sensation, and the slight, jangling 'noise' of magic that a mage or wizard could detect. Yet Jemayne, following the process warily with her mage-sight, quickly became so fascinated that she forgot both fear and suspicion. It wasn't just the magic that was different, but the style in which Sheyrena employed it, and Jemayne rather thought that the style, at least, might be able to be emulated. 

Relatively quickly, Rena stepped back. "That's about it for now I think. You seem to be progressing well, and I believe we'll need to leave it pretty much up to your own body to take care of things from here. We wouldn't want to complicate the pregnancy." 

And there it was. Out in the open. Jemayne was abruptly very aware of Cyerriah's gaze, bright and questioning upon her. Damn it. She didn't want to look, didn't have to, really. She could already picture perfectly what she would see. The realization, the intolerable pity, the questions. Cyerriah would never ask of course. Jemayne could ignore this entire episode, and Cyerriah would accept it, accept the hurt as if she believed she deserved it. 

Damn it. 

She didn't want to—couldn't deal with all this right now. _Too bad._ "Could we…have a moment, please?" 

Rena and Mero exchanged looks. "Of course. If you need anything, you can ask any of the people around here." 

Jemayne watched them go, conflicting impulses warring within her. At the last minute, she focused her magic as much as her current state would allow her, and imprecisely mindspoke Mero. _::I… the baby. It's all right?::_

Jemayne saw him hesitate in the opening of the tent, and glance back uncertainly at her. A pause. She wondered if he was consulting the elf, or just not sure of how to answer. Finally: _::It's fine. A very healthy baby. Everything should go well.::_

_::Thank you. …Tell her thanks.::_

She felt his compassionate smile. _::I'll do that. Get some rest.::_

With a sigh Jemayne lay back in the cot, her head aching fiercly, despite how minimal the exertion had been. Rest, yes. Soon. But first… she closed her eyes for a moment, to bolster herself, then looked at Cyerriah. "We need to talk." 

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A/N: And now you know. That's all for now. Did you like it? I know not much happened… I actually didn't get as far as I planned. Things always seem to take longer than I think they will. It's funny, Jemayne was just a spur-of-the-moment minor char, and now she's practically got the whole chapter to herself. And the next one—find out a bit about Jemayne's past! Yay! (Well, I'm excited. I don't know much myself.) 

All right, big time thank you to all the reviewers. You make my day and keep me motivated. Foxfire1 sent me a very thoughtful and insightful e-mail—thank you! I really appreciated your comments. 

A few responses: 

**Rosethorn:** Survived it—but barely. Thanks!  
A couple people commented on Cye's fighting. I have to admit, I was tempted. It would have been a lot of fun to have her kick all their butts. (In fact, I think that may have been somewhere in the original plans for this story.) But yes, I think this way is probably better. And you're right, she did get lucky. But she did have quite a few things in her favor… We'll see. 

**Winona**: Heh heh. You caught it. 

**Karana Belle**: Thank you! I'm glad you liked the action scene… I wasn't really sure about it. And still only 3 books. There's a fourth one planned, but its not coming out 'til 2005. cries. 

**Lurks in Shadows:**: Thanks! 

**X-Wing**: Can't say anything. Guess you'll find out. 

Thank you all again. Please review!  
-Li


	8. Past and Present

Sad to say, in the battle between my little reality and real life, RL is winning. 

Well, it's been quite a while. Who knew summers could be so busy? Ah, that's not really an excuse. Partly, I just haven't felt like writing for a bit. I think in some ways I'm not particularly happy with the last chapter. It's really more a means to an end than anything all that interesting on its own. Not that I dislike it… I actually rather enjoy Mero and Rena's bit. I dunno. 

Anyway, for some reason I can't seem to right except for times when I'm really so busy I should be doing other things. Who knows what that says about me? 

But, here it is, late, but here. Weird but here. Give me some feedback, please. 

Oh, and let me say thank you so much for all the people who continued to review while I was gone. That really spurred me through some writer's block and got this chapter out. So, yeah. Y'all rock. 

Disclaimer: Not mine. Mine. There is a fine distinction. Halfblood Chronicles are one, this storyline is another. 

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_Jemayne is pregnant?_ Cyerriah struggled to wrap her mind around the idea. Breeders got pregnant. The occasional bond-slave rewarded with the opportunity to marry got pregnant. Pregnancy among humans was an event carefully monitored and controlled by the elven overlords. Common slaves, scullery slaves like Jemayne, did not get pregnant. 

The little she knew came from distant, vague memories of the breeders her mother had been a part of. Watching Jemayne now, as the other dismissed Mero and Sheyrena, Cyerriah examined the diminutive girl, running through the events of the past days under this new light. _She kept throwing up… is that normal? What kind of strain has she been under?_ For the first time it occurred to her to wonder just how old the other girl was. _Younger than me,_ Cyerriah thought. _By several years. Fifteen… maybe sixteen. Ancestors, so young!_

Slaves grew up quickly, of course. They had to, to survive. Cyerriah's own childhood had ended when she had been taken from her mother at five to begin her training. But pregnancy… Fleetingly Cyerriah wondered if she would have become a breeder some day. The thought was foreign, and unsettling. And yet it was perhaps the best of the potential futures a concubine could look forward to… 

Her mind was drawn inexorably back to the current crisis. _Jemayne is pregnant. What happened to her?_ It hurt to contemplate, sent a pang of sorrow and compassion slicing through her with the sharpness of a knife. And other thoughts. _She must have known. She knew. She was hiding it from me._ That hurt, too, in its own way—the awareness of how little she really knew about this other girl. And what right did she have to know? If Jemayne wanted to keep secrets, she was more than entitled to. And if Jemayne didn't trust her… well, wasn't she entitled to that, too? Even if hurt? 

Jemayne's voice broke into her thoughts. "We need to talk." Odd—now that Jemayne had finally looked at her, it was Cyerriah who found she couldn't meet the other girl's eyes. She found a comb lying atop a box, and busied herself with setting Jemayne's short blonde hair to rights. 

The distraction helped her to keep her words calm and detached. "Only if you want to." Her hands worked with gentle assurance at the familiar task. Yet another of the less than useful skills of her training, she considered with bitter irony. 

"I should have told you—" Jemayne started, haltingly. "You deserve to know." 

"You weren't obligated to tell me anything. You still aren't." 

Jemayne's hands clenched. "Yes I am! And I should have. Because…" Her words tumbled over each other in a self-conscious rush. "Because I'd like to think you're my friend, and that's what friends do! They tell each other things." She was looking thoroughly embarrassed now, and her voice dropped to a low mutter. "I'm not very used to having friends." 

Cyerriah felt a peculiar lifting in her heart. "Me neither." _Friends._ It was a nice word. It brought a smile to her face. _Does it even matter if she really means it?_ "Maynee…" she searched for words, came up blank. "…thanks. You still don't have to tell me, though." 

Jemayne twisted to glare irritably at the other girl. "Haven't you listened to a word I've said? Of course I'm telling you." It was so typical of Jemayne that Cyerriah broke into a grin. Jemayne struggled to look properly annoyed then grinned herself, settling back into the cot. "And don't you forget it." 

Jemayne sighed then, and fell into a contemplative silence for a few moments, and the mood grew solemn again. Finally, she spoke. "Mother is a strange word. What do you suppose mothers are like outside of slavery? I don't remember mine—just the children's pens." Cyerriah set the comb down and moved to sit beside the cot. "The baby's half-elven," Jemayne said abruptly. "A wizard. I suppose that's why Amity sent us to the halfbloods. Not that it matters." 

She laughed, a harsh sound. "I probably don't even need to tell the rest of the story. There aren't too many ways for a common slave to wind up with an elf-child in her belly. Is it even rape if it's a slave?" 

Cyerriah's eyes were wide and sad, deep with reflected pain. _Oh, Maynee._

Perhaps she spoke the words aloud, for Jemayne shrugged, and continued, almost carelessly. "I suppose V'Kel Shaen Lord Kavoes didn't have enough concubines." She saw the wordless question in the other girl's face. She had seen from the beginning where Cyerriah's feelings about the elvenlord lay. It had, in fact, been as much the reason for her dislike as any other cause. Granted, feelings on both sides had shifted over time, but Jemayne found herself probing mercilessly. "You love him. Still." 

Cyerriah's face contracted. "I don't know." The words sounded lost. "Jemayne… did he…?" She trailed off, unable to finish. 

Jemayne's voice was hard, almost cold. "What if I said it was him?" 

Cyerriah flinched as if struck but said nothing, dropping her gaze. Jemayne immediately felt guilty, the spite draining out of her, leaving her empty and tired. "No. I never even knew his name. Just some anonymous lordly guest who couldn't go a few days without his concubines. Or maybe he just liked harassing slave girls, I don't know." 

She tipped her head back, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. "Everyone could tell right off he was one of those types. The sadists. I was just the only one stupid enough to get myself cornered." 

Her hands tightened on the blankets and she drew them closer around her. "I still can't get his laugh out of my head. The way he enjoyed the pain… humiliation. Sometimes I even see his face. Clear as day, like he's there again. A beautiful face. Even his laugh. Things like that shouldn't be beautiful. Maybe that's why they stuck so well. It's weird, everything else seems blurry and… distant. Someone else's pain. Screams. Like I'm just watching. But it makes me sick. I can't stand it—to be so totally helpless. So totally—and I want to—I just—" 

Her shoulders convulsed with a sudden gasping sob. And then another. And then she was crying, violently, with all the fervency and energy she put into every action. She was crying, and Cyerriah found that she had no words to comfort, no soothing melodies, no automatic and ingrained techniques from her training to confer. She could only hold onto her friend, pained and at a loss, until weariness sapped the passion from Jemayne's sobs, and her crying gradually abated. 

Finally, Jemayne pushed away, sinking back into her cot. "Sorry." Her voice sound hoarse and exhausted, but she twisted her lips around a weak self-mocking smile. "I promised myself I'd done all the crying I was going to do because of that pointy-eared bastard." She let out a shaky breath, and scrubbed vigorously at her face. "Stupid… 's done now." 

Automatically, Cyerriah passed her a handkerchief, and Jemayne accepted the offering with a grimace of amusement that exposed a faint echo of her usual spirit. "'m fine." As if to prove her words, she rolled her shoulders in a cavalier shrug, and launched back into her narrative. 

"Anyway, Amity was the one who found me. Not then of course, but later. You don't dare tell anyone—slaves can get killed for that kind of thing. Not that you want to tell anyone. It's just—it's hard pretending. You clean up and you go on like nothing happened." 

Her voice picked up an edge. "It's just another day, and you have work to do, and if anybody asks, you got clumsy on the stairs. People suspect of course, but they don't _know_, so they don't have to report you." She punctuated the words with a bitter laugh. "Wouldn't want the elves getting paranoid and starting some culling crusade."  
"Amity, though… she doesn't pretend like the rest of us, does she? Don't know how the batty old woman survived so long." Jemayne's lips curved with affection. "Yet somehow she seems indestructible, doesn't she? Funny… She saw the signs—just like everyone else. But more, she took me aside, talked to me… cared. Who cares about a stranger?" 

"…We're not going to hurt you. We want to help."  
"I am sorry… I only want to help." 

Jemayne's brow furrowed at the flash of memory, but she continued. "No one else did—back there. In a way, we were all strangers, weren't we?" 

Cyerriah spoke, her voice sounding abrupt after her long silence. "The collars." Her words fell heavily into the air, as if burdened with a personal grief. 

Jemayne narrowed her eyes. "Yes." The word was a hiss of distaste. "Amity said the collar-spell was tied into that. But spell or no spell… in the end I think the responsibility falls on the individual." She shrugged and looked embarrassed by her philosophizing. "Anyway. Long story short, Amity helped me out in more ways than one. My magic started up right after that—trying to break free of the collar. Made me more than a little sick, and also made a few things happen that would have signed my death warrant if anyone else had seen. Spontaneous combustion and the like." 

"Amity said it was the trauma that did it—woke the magic up." Jemayne's mouth twisted into a smile full of bitter irony. "Funny, isn't it? If it weren't for that pointy-eared bastard I'd still be a slave. Still be helpless." Her normally blue eyes were shadow-filled…midnight dark. "Funny. Anyway, Amity's the only reason they _didn't_ catch me. She gave me an iron piece, which helped, then got the blasted collar off, which helped more. She even got me a look-alike, and blast me if I can figure where she came up with _that_. She also showed me how to get my magic under control, gave me lessons. Amity's no mage, but she knew enough theory to get me through." Jemayne blew out a breath of air and leaned back, staring up into the canvas above her. "I swear—that woman's not human. She's got an answer to everything. Maybe she's from one of the Old Gods." 

"She is wonderful…" Cyerriah smiled, musing aloud. "Do you suppose there really was a time before the elves?" 

Jemayne shrugged. "Hard to imagine, isn't it?" 

Cyerriah nodded pensively. "Amity says that's where the Dance she taught me comes from…a before-time. I never really believed her, but now…" 

"Hmph." Jemayne turned, focusing an intense gaze upon her. "I wonder… well. Maybe Amity set you up as well as she did me." She barked a laugh. "Wouldn't be surprised—crafty old bag. I swear…" She shook her head and sighed. "Well, there's one last part to the story. Amity saw more symptoms than my magic breaking loose." Jemayne's stared off into space, the moment clear in her mind. 

_"Ah, sweetling, ye're not dying. Ye be carrying a little, 'tis all."_

Shock. Denial. Revulsion. Anger. All swam dizzingly in her head, leaving her unable to form a coherent sentence. Her first words had been of rejection—of the pronouncement, of Amity, of the child. _Infection._ It had felt like a second violation, the renewal of that—creature's presence. 

She remembered when she had finally, bluntly, asked Amity how to get rid of it. And been shocked again—by Amity's reaction so similar to her own in its way. Revulsion followed by anger. She had never seen Amity angry before—not towards her. They argued viciously and parted, and Jemayne had spent a miserable night, alone and afraid; cold inside after the heat of her anger had left her. She hadn't thought she would see Amity again. She hadn't been sure she would even survive the week. 

So she was startled anew when the old woman sought her out the next day. Amity looked… tired. Careworn. But resigned. And today, even quietly sympathetic and understanding towards Jemayne. In this manner she delved straight into the day's instruction, making no reference to the previous day. When Jemayne uncertainly attempted to bring it up she made her statement simply and softly. 

_"When ye've the skill for it, ye'll know how, lass, if ye want. I'll not hinder your choice, whatever it may be. We'll talk no more of it."_

That same sadness and resignation echoed through her words, but with it Jemayne thought she detected the hint of another emotion; something like guilt or anger directed inwards. What could Amity have to be mad at herself about? 

Jemayne looked toward Cyerriah, still turning that question over in her mind as she spoke. "I didn't want this. I didn't ask for it. Amity was upset at first… that I wanted to get rid of it and I couldn't understand why. It was just… I don't want any part of _him_. Amity wouldn't show me directly how to get rid of it, but I figured I could work that out on my own, eventually. After all, I've got magic, right? What better?" 

She looked searchingly at Cyerriah, but didn't know what she wanted to find there. What she saw was something like the face of a person struggling with foreign ideas and emotions; someone who attempted to empathize, but in the end could only feel sympathy and uncertainty. Perhaps it helped—there was no judgment there. At any rate, Jemayne found suddenly that she wanted nothing more but to move away from these uncomfortable recollections and feelings. 

"I can't say exactly how things happened from there—or whether anything happened at all. But when I could—when I finally thought I could try… I—well, I looked. There's away of looking, with the mage sight, to see inside things… it has to do with healing. But I looked inside, and there was this tiny little thing that didn't look quite like a person, or quite like a nothing. And, I don't know what it was but right then I felt him kick. For the first time." She closed her eyes, caught by the memory. Had it been the magic? Had it been chance? Recognition? A very deep part of her mind wondered if it might not have been an excuse. She sighed, releasing the questions gladly. They weren't what mattered. What mattered was what had changed in that moment. 

"He's mine. My son. Cye, he's so beautiful. And I want to—protect him, to keep him happy. I want—I want his world to be everything the elves have tried to take from us. I want him to have a family, love, friends, choices, everything!" It wasn't quite a smile that transformed her face, but her face was alight with energy, and her blue eyes seemed almost to glow. 

"This baby… it's almost like he's nothing to do with… that… or rather, he's something the elves wouldn't have wanted. Something they're scared of. Another one of the beautiful things they try to take away from us. They deny us the right to be people, they deny him the right to exist! But I claim him. I want him. I love him already—is that strange? Is it odd for my feelings to change like this?" Her voice and features softened, and she pressed a hand to her stomach with something like wonder. "But it is… a sort of miracle… not even magic to help, but it happens anyway." 

They passed a few moments in comfortable silence that way, then Jemayne turned to Cyerriah matter-of-factly, though her voice came slightly uneven. "Well. Now you 'know all.' Some final spilling of the guts. Pass me that bowl, I'm going to sick up." 

Cyerriah her lip, trying not to smile as Jemayne really was quite sick into the bowl. _Leave it to Maynee to end a story like that. And make time for sarcastic commentary. Ancestors, help me._

Her emotions and thoughts were still spinning from the day's events. But as she stroked her friend's hair back, helped her wipe her face, and settled her in for some real, much needed rest, she felt the strangest sense of contentment settle over her. For the first time in several weeks she didn't worry about how things were going to work out, or what she could possibly make of use out of herself. She had a place, of sorts. A friend. And maybe, eventually, a family. 

---------------------------------------------------------- 

Well, the end of this chapter could probably use some tweaking. And there was supposed to be a bit of ominous plot development at the end, but I thought you'd rather have something sooner, after my long absence. So we'll leave that for next time. I'm not sure quite how I feel about this chapter, but I think that personally, I like it. Let me know how it works for you guys… I worry a bit that I spent too much time on Maynee's past, or approached it the wrong way. 

Review Responses: 

_Rosethorn:_ Yeah, I should probably get a beta reader. But I'm not really attempting to post a finished product here—and I tend to get bogged down. Well, it's just for fun, and I look for feedback like yours, and try mostly to write better in the future. I did capitalize Self on purpose… sorta the proper noun approach when something represents a little more of a concept and idea, almost an entity. Like Justice. Or maybe I'm just being crazy.  
Augh, your comments about Sue-ism have driven me crazy. I keep analyzing poor Cye to bits. Well, I think I have shifted a few plans for her, but it would help if you'd be more specific. Then I'd know whether I agreed with you or not. 

_Lizai:_ Yes, indeed, she will. Poor, poor baby. Or maybe poor rest of the world, if he's anything like her. 

_Winona:_ Well, nothing too surprising came out. I look to the future. 

_Goti-chan:_ I charge you with a great quest. Rest not until you have hunted these books unto their deepest lairs and… hm, I am in a weird mood. Thanx for the compliment! 

_Ken:_ Thank you. Perhaps I shall endeavor to work a mention of horses into the story. Perhaps I am overfond of the word perhaps in this chapter. Perhaps. 

_Sarah:_ Thanks! Your enthusiasm makes me happy to write! 

_Katherine Sloan:_ Well, I've looked. And I would LOVE to hear from anyone else writing an Elvenbane fic.  
Unnatural Love, id:1859046; and Elvenbound, id:1364686 are the only ones I've encountered. I gladly pimp them here. 

_Ballgirl:_ Thanks! And here you go! Heh, now everyone must pester me for the next update. That is, if y'all want one.  
  
Hmm, I think I'm just gonna post this sucker now. I gotta go to bed. But I'll cross my fingers and hope for response. Ciao!  
-Li


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